20. Theo
THEO
The sound of Azaria crying through the door yesterday had been torture—raw, broken sobs that made every instinct I possess scream at me to break down the barrier between us.
I'd stood there for twenty minutes, hand hovering over the handle, respecting her request for space while hating every second of it.
Which is why I'm leading her through the townhouse now, past rooms she's never bothered exploring, toward the one space I've kept entirely to myself.
"Where exactly are we going?" Azaria follows behind me, bare feet silent on the hardwood. The short silk loungewear she's wearing—ivory with thin straps that keep sliding off her shoulders.
"You need a break from the investigation."
I push open the heavy door at the end of the hall, revealing the private theater I had installed two years ago. Eight leather recliners arranged in two rows, a projection screen that takes up most of the far wall, and enough sound equipment to make a studio jealous.
Azaria stops in the doorway, dark eyes widening as she takes in the space.
"Theo, what is this?"
"Somewhere you can forget about Massimo for a few hours."
The coffee table in front of the center seats holds my peace offering—bowls of popcorn, chocolate-covered strawberries, and the bottle of 2005 Chateau d'Yquem she'd mentioned loving during some long-ago conversation I apparently filed away without realizing it.
"You got the Sauternes."
"You said you liked it."
Azaria stares at the bottle for a long moment before turning to face me completely.
"I can't believe you remembered that."
"I remember everything you tell me."
She closes the distance between us in three quick steps, arms wrapping around my waist before I can process what's happening. The silk of her top slides against my t-shirt, her body warm and solid against my chest.
"Thank you." The words are muffled against my shoulder. "This is exactly what I needed."
My arms come up automatically, one hand settling at the small of her back while the other finds the space between her shoulder blades.
"What are we watching?" She pulls back, dimple appearing as she surveys the setup again.
"Bullitt. 1968."
"Steve McQueen?" Her entire face lights up. "Oh, this is going to be perfect."
We settle into the center recliners, close enough that makes concentrating on anything else nearly impossible. The wine opens with a soft pop, golden liquid catching the theater's dim lighting as I pour.
Twenty minutes into the film, Azaria's already half-drunk on Sauternes and completely enchanted.
"Look at that Mustang." She points at the screen, nearly spilling wine on the leather armrest. "1968 Fastback GT 390. Highland Green with the black interior. That car is amazing."
"You know cars?"
"I know beautiful things." She takes another sip, eyes never leaving the screen. "And that Mustang is automotive poetry."
The chase scene through San Francisco streets has her practically bouncing in her seat, providing commentary that's equal parts technical knowledge and pure enthusiasm.
"He's going to bottom out on that hill—there! Did you see the sparks?"
Her laugh fills the theater, rich and uninhibited.
"McQueen did most of his own driving," I tell her, refilling her glass.
"Of course he did. Look at him." She gestures dramatically at the screen. "That's not acting, that's a man who understands that some things are worth the risk."
When the villain's Dodge Charger finally explodes, she does a perfect impression of his death scream that has me laughing hard.
"Too dramatic?" She grins, wine-flushed and gorgeous.
"Completely over the top."
"Good. Subtlety is overrated."
The credits roll, theater falling into comfortable darkness broken only by the soft glow of the exit signs. Azaria turns in her chair, silk top sliding off one shoulder as she faces me completely.
"I can't believe you did this." Her voice carries wonder, as if kindness is something foreign in her experience. "The wine, the movie, all of it. You're just so sweet."
Before I can respond, she's leaning across the space between our chairs, hands framing my face as her lips find mine.
The kiss starts soft—her lips warm from the wine, tasting of honey and something darker, something that belongs only to her. But soft doesn’t last. Azaria makes this little sound in the back of her throat, half-moan, half-challenge.
I grip her waist, fingers digging into the silk of her top, pulling her closer until there’s no space left between us. She arches into me, her body pliant and demanding all at once, and I can feel every curve of her pressing against me through the thin fabric.
"You taste better than the wine," she murmurs against my mouth, teeth grazing my bottom lip.
I don’t answer with words. Instead, I slide my hands down to her thighs, lifting her effortlessly onto my lap.
She straddles me, the silk of her shorts doing nothing to hide how warm she is, how ready.
Her hips roll against me once, twice, and I swear I can feel her heat through both layers of fabric.
Azaria breaks the kiss just long enough to pull her top over her head, tossing it somewhere behind her. No bra—just smooth, dark skin glowing in the dim light, her nipples already hard. She reaches for my shirt, but I catch her wrists, pinning them behind her back with one hand.
"Not yet," I growl, my voice rough.
She laughs, breathless. "Since when do you get to be in charge?"
"Since you decided to ride me in my own theater."
Her eyes darken at that, lips parting. "Fine. But I’m not waiting long."
I release her wrists and she immediately goes for my belt, fingers working the buckle with practiced ease. But I stop her again, this time guiding her off my lap and onto the recliner beside me.
"Sit," I order, voice low. "And spread your legs."
She obeys, but not without attitude. "Bossy. I like it."
I kneel between her thighs, hands sliding up her legs, pushing them wider. The silk shorts are in the way, so I hook my fingers into the waistband and tug them down, baring her completely. She’s already wet, glistening, and the sight of her like this—open, unashamed, mine—makes my cock ache.
"Fuck, Zari," I mutter, running my thumb along her slit. "You’re soaked."
She gasps as I press two fingers inside her, her back arching off the chair. "Theo?—"
I don’t let her finish. I curl my fingers, finding that spot that makes her thighs tremble, and she whimpers, her hands flying to my shoulders. I work her hard, rough, my thumb circling her clit in time with my thrusts.
"Oh god," she moans, her hips bucking against my hand. "Just like that—don’t stop?—"
I don’t. I keep going, watching her face as she gets closer, her breath coming in sharp gasps. Her nails dig into my skin, leaving half-moon marks, and I welcome the pain.
"Come for me," I demand, my voice a growl. "Now."
She shatters with a cry, her body tightening around my fingers as she rides out the waves. I don’t stop until she’s limp, her chest heaving, her skin slick with sweat.
She looks up at me, eyes heavy-lidded, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Your turn."
I stand, pulling her up with me, and she drops to her knees without hesitation. Her hands go to my belt again, this time unbuckling it with purpose. She pulls my cock free, her fingers wrapping around me, and I hiss at the contact.
"Condom?" she asks, looking up at me.
I shake my head. “I need to go get it.”
“No, I am on the pill. Clean?” She raises a brow.
"Always.”
"Good." She licks her lips. "Then I want to feel all of you."
I don’t need to be told twice. I pull her to her feet, spinning her around and bending her over the arm of the recliner. She braces herself, her ass in the air, and I run my hand down her spine before positioning myself at her entrance.
"Ready?" I ask.
"Fuck yes," she breathes.
I push inside her in one smooth thrust, and we both groan at the sensation. She’s tight, hot, perfect. I give her a second to adjust before pulling out and slamming back in, setting a rhythm that has her moaning my name.
"Harder," she demands, her voice muffled against the leather.
I oblige, my hands gripping her hips as I fuck her with everything I have. The theater fills with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, her moans, my grunts, the creak of the chair beneath us.
"You feel so good," I growl, my thumb finding her clit again. "So tight. So wet."
She whimpers, pushing back against me. "Don’t stop—please don’t stop?—"
I don’t. I keep going, my pace relentless, my fingers working her clit until she’s trembling again, her body tightening around me.
"Come for me," I order, my voice a growl. "Come on my cock."
She obeys, her back arching as she cries out, her orgasm triggering my own. I bury myself deep inside her as I come, my release hitting me like a freight train, my vision going white for a second.
We stay like that for a long moment, both of us breathing hard, before I pull out and help her stand. She turns to face me, her eyes soft, her lips swollen from kissing.
Azaria's already reaching for her silk top before I've even caught my breath, movements quick and efficient as she pulls the fabric over her head.
"Well, that was fun." She smooths the material down, dimple flashing as she grins at me. "Nothing like a good old-fashioned stress relief session, right?"
I pull my shirt back on, watching her hunt for her shorts with the same casual energy she'd use to discuss the weather.
"We should probably get back to the Paris investigation tomorrow." She steps into the silk bottoms, tugging them up her legs. "I've been thinking and I want to call Margot again. Push harder this time."
"Azaria." I buckle my belt, frustration building in my chest. "Can we talk about what just happened?"
"What about it?" She runs her fingers through her hair, already moving toward the theater door. "Two consenting adults had some excellent chemistry. Not exactly groundbreaking news."
"That's not what I mean."
She pauses at the threshold, turning back with raised eyebrows. "Then what do you mean, exactly?"
"Every time something real happens between us, you shut it down immediately."
"Real?" Her laugh carries an edge. "Theo, we just had amazing sex in your private theater. Doesn't get much realer than that."
"You know that's not what I'm talking about."
"Look, we're both adults here. We have incredible physical chemistry—obviously. But let's not complicate things by making it more than it is."
I finish adjusting my clothes, meeting her gaze directly. "What if it already is more?"
"Then that's a problem we don't need to have. I'm going to grab a shower. Clear my head before we dive back into Massimo's web of lies tomorrow."
She starts to leave, then stops, glancing back with that devastating smile that never quite reaches her eyes.
"Besides, mixing business with pleasure never ends well. Ask any corporate handbook."
"This isn't business."
"Isn't it?" She tilts her head. "You're protecting me from a scandal. I'm the problem you're solving. Sounds pretty transactional to me. I'll be back in twenty minutes," she continues, already walking away. "Maybe we can order Thai food and go through those financial records again." She walks off.
I stand in the empty theater, surrounded by the lingering scent of her perfume and the weight of everything she refuses to acknowledge.
For someone who built her career on being photographed, Azaria has mastered the art of never letting anyone see her clearly.